A Haribo mixing-bag of outdated preachings and mediocre music

Passing Strange is a musical that tells the story of a young Black American in Los Angeles who turns away from his own family and culture, venturing to Amsterdam and Berlin to discover his true self and to fulfil his dream of making music. In Amsterdam (yes as all you can imagine), he indulges in drugs and sex, but soon gets tired. In Berlin, he meets radical artists with mohawk and spike hairstyles. While he constantly grapples with making friends and finding true love, the advent of Christmas and the loss of his mother urge him to realise something more profound (at least seemingly): the complexity of the self, as well as the true meaning of home.

Written by Stew, with music by Stew and Heidi Rodewald, this 2008 Broadway production ventures itself into the 2024 Young Vic under the direction of Liesl Tommy. On a V-shaped stage resembling an indie rock concert (do they borrow it from their neighbour Machinal by the way?), the story unveils itself through a narrator (Giles Terera). The young man, referred to as “Youth” (Keenan Munn-Francis), discards his upbringing, attempts to find himself by wearing other personas to fit in, and finally matures at the price of losing a loved one. Though Munn-Francis indeed manoeuvres the character blending fragility, sincerity and perplexity, the plot remains still as dull as you might predict.

The show’s full of outdated preachings that Mr. Franklin himself (Caleb Roberts), a big figure in the Black church back in Los Angeles, would find not convincing: the authenticity of art, truth as a social construct (much like a first-year college student having only read two pages of Michel Foucault), and iterations of familial significance that you would heard from Reagan or G.W.Bush. This has been exacerbated by a light-handed directorial touch and a pretentious, self-indulgent acting style of the ensemble, who represents the choir in Los Angeles, the counterculture artists in Amsterdam, and the headbangers in Berlin who are, to a great extent, much stereotyped by Americans. The inclusion of a toilet and a bathtub appears rather random, while the use of camera and projection seems pointless, as if chosen only because they look trendy or avant-garde. 

I’d always like to pay my greatest homage to the musicians: Pete Billington the keyboard, Ikechukwu Onwuagbu the bass, JT Taylor the drummer who hides himself inside his drum shield house. Under the musical direction by Jerome van den Berghe, the band deliberately showcases their hard work. Nevertheless, although advertised as a “rock” musical with some punk elements, the show leans towards a more folk style mixed with a gospel vibe, akin to a Haribo selection bag that you really can’t remember which gummy you’ve just chewed – they are just too passable to remember. When I hear some diluted version of Rammstein or Bring Me The Horizon, and realise I can’t really headband at the Young Vic, I can’t help but wondering why I don’t just walk ten minutes to Omeara for the real thing there.